The gnomelike figure of Dwight Whitney Morrow, U. S. Ambassador to Mexico, remitted its busy comings and goings in Mexico City last week and quietly lay, bolstered among fat white pillows, in bed. Ambassador Morrow had a fever; nothing serious, just a touch of grippe. Affairs of state awaited his mending. But there was no pause in the restless activity of Mr. Morrow's mind, which, accustomed to strenuous exercise, cried out for diversion at least. When his physician refused him permission to work, Mr. Morrow said: "All right, then, I will enjoy myself as I always do when I have to...
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